Your Character's Name: Claire I led the group to my family’s home, pulling the door shut behind me as I bade them to wait outside. I stood just inside the doorway for a moment as the lock clicked into place, just breathing in the musty scent of the damp house. My heart thumped so fiercely I thought the others might hear it, and I suddenly started to fear that I was unprepared for this wildly preposterous journey across the Wasteland.
I had limited myself to the small, desolate neighborhood of my youth for so many years, with only minimal human contact. It was terrifying to consider that my life, my routine, was going to be flipped on its head in a matter of moments when I walked back through the door. But I had already begun this transformation, and I could hear my daddy’s voice in the back of my head:
“Always finish the things you begin,” he would say, as he showed me how to arrange his books in order of category, alphabetically by author. I had brought all these people together for a purpose – it would be dangerous to back out at this point. I knew I couldn’t trust strangers not to become violent in an instant. I exhaled through my nostrils and grabbed my pack from underneath my springy cot.
I began by carefully adding meaningful items – the vagrant’s iPod, my father’s deck of cards, my prized can of Spaghettios – but as the reality of my current situation began to sink in further, I became more reckless. It had never occurred to me until that moment how much I detested this place, these walls; I was filled with the urge to destroy the memories that had kept me there, a prisoner of my emotional scars.
I tore at the peeling wallpaper, scratching fervently at the scribble of my mother’s hand that covered its surface. Tears streamed down my face as I ripped the curtain from its flimsy rod and threw it across the dirt-covered floor. My grandmother had sewn it for us when I was young, maybe four years old. I hated the once-bright flower pattern, and the streaks of water that discolored its dye, a result of a slow but constant leak during wet weather. I flung my father’s prized literature collection from the shelves, unaware of my own sobbing as bindings broke and pages flew into the air.
Suddenly, I stopped.
The mirror that sat in the corner, once broken, contained now only a few shards. An unfamiliar reflection looked out at me, a blotchy, swollen-faced creature with disheveled hair, raccoon eyes and a heartbroken expression. With a mix of sadness and revulsion, I picked up my washing cloth and dipped it in the rain barrel one last time. I moved it over my face in long, slow strokes, wiping the salty tears and running makeup away, leaving myself vulnerable.
Picking up my pack, I absent-mindedly shoved a few other supplies inside. I slung my father’s hunting rifle over my shoulder, though I didn’t know how to use it, and turned my back on the past seventeen years of my life. The flimsy door clicked shut behind me. I didn’t bother to lock it upon this final departure – let some Wasteland vagrant ransack this pitiful place full of painful memories.
My companions eyed me warily, in silent observation of my obviously distressed state. I didn’t say anything, however, instead focusing on adjusting the strap on the gun, raising it to a more comfortable position on my shoulder.
“We should head north,” Winston declared after a few tense moments, scanning the horizon. He seemed to be acknowledging my desire to pretend nothing was wrong. I was grateful.
“Lead the way, sir,” I replied, avoiding the curious glances of the others. I let them walk ahead of me, bringing up the rear in contemplative silence. Bordeaux glanced back at me, then leaning over to whisper something to Rio who walked directly in front of me. I saw him shake his head, a quick dismissal. Blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized my embarrassment at behaving so improperly in front of strangers I hardly knew. I looked away, over the heads of my companions, toward our unknown destination.
The sky was dark, infinitely dark as we set off down the path, leaving New Bottsford and my old life firmly in the past. For the first time in my life, I did not know what the next day was going to bring – only that it would not be my usual routine. I didn’t know if I would find my parents, but at least I was finally free.
I led the group to my family’s home, pulling the door shut behind me as I bade them to wait outside. I stood just inside the doorway for a moment as the lock clicked into place, just breathing in the musty scent of the damp house. My heart thumped so fiercely I thought the others might hear it, and I suddenly started to fear that I was unprepared for this wildly preposterous journey across the Wasteland.
I had limited myself to the small, desolate neighborhood of my youth for so many years, with only minimal human contact. It was terrifying to consider that my life, my routine, was going to be flipped on its head in a matter of moments when I walked back through the door. But I had already begun this transformation, and I could hear my daddy’s voice in the back of my head:
“Always finish the things you begin,” he would say, as he showed me how to arrange his books in order of category, alphabetically by author. I had brought all these people together for a purpose – it would be dangerous to back out at this point. I knew I couldn’t trust strangers not to become violent in an instant. I exhaled through my nostrils and grabbed my pack from underneath my springy cot.
I began by carefully adding meaningful items – the vagrant’s iPod, my father’s deck of cards, my prized can of Spaghettios – but as the reality of my current situation began to sink in further, I became more reckless. It had never occurred to me until that moment how much I detested this place, these walls; I was filled with the urge to destroy the memories that had kept me there, a prisoner of my emotional scars.
I tore at the peeling wallpaper, scratching fervently at the scribble of my mother’s hand that covered its surface. Tears streamed down my face as I ripped the curtain from its flimsy rod and threw it across the dirt-covered floor. My grandmother had sewn it for us when I was young, maybe four years old. I hated the once-bright flower pattern, and the streaks of water that discolored its dye, a result of a slow but constant leak during wet weather. I flung my father’s prized literature collection from the shelves, unaware of my own sobbing as bindings broke and pages flew into the air.
Suddenly, I stopped.
The mirror that sat in the corner, once broken, contained now only a few shards. An unfamiliar reflection looked out at me, a blotchy, swollen-faced creature with disheveled hair, raccoon eyes and a heartbroken expression. With a mix of sadness and revulsion, I picked up my washing cloth and dipped it in the rain barrel one last time. I moved it over my face in long, slow strokes, wiping the salty tears and running makeup away, leaving myself vulnerable.
Picking up my pack, I absent-mindedly shoved a few other supplies inside. I slung my father’s hunting rifle over my shoulder, though I didn’t know how to use it, and turned my back on the past seventeen years of my life. The flimsy door clicked shut behind me. I didn’t bother to lock it upon this final departure – let some Wasteland vagrant ransack this pitiful place full of painful memories.
My companions eyed me warily, in silent observation of my obviously distressed state. I didn’t say anything, however, instead focusing on adjusting the strap on the gun, raising it to a more comfortable position on my shoulder.
“We should head north,” Winston declared after a few tense moments, scanning the horizon. He seemed to be acknowledging my desire to pretend nothing was wrong. I was grateful.
“Lead the way, sir,” I replied, avoiding the curious glances of the others. I let them walk ahead of me, bringing up the rear in contemplative silence. Bordeaux glanced back at me, then leaning over to whisper something to Rio who walked directly in front of me. I saw him shake his head, a quick dismissal. Blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized my embarrassment at behaving so improperly in front of strangers I hardly knew. I looked away, over the heads of my companions, toward our unknown destination.
The sky was dark, infinitely dark as we set off down the path, leaving New Bottsford and my old life firmly in the past. For the first time in my life, I did not know what the next day was going to bring – only that it would not be my usual routine. I didn’t know if I would find my parents, but at least I was finally free.